


let us stop talking falsely now

by redledgers



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Celestial Percy, Death, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:19:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9167932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redledgers/pseuds/redledgers
Summary: There is nothing he can tell her, not yet, not now, but it won't wait.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alienfirst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienfirst/gifts).



> Take a listen to Lord Huron's "The Yawning Grave" for Mood
> 
> Title from "All Along the Watchtower" though.

He makes his way about the dimly lit space, occasionally fumbling until he finds what he needs. It’s not like coffee will help him now but he still resists the urge to scratch the spot on his back that’s been bothering him for a week and _it’s time you tell her,_ he thinks. But he can’t, not yet. The water boils and he crosses into the library to find something, anything to pass the time. She designed the home like this, so he could remember to eat when he lost track of time.

He’s trapped in his thoughts until the scent of coffee coils around him and he feels a presence in the room. He drops his hand from where it was resting on the bookshelf. She’s in the doorway, a mug in hand, looking at him thoughtfully. And she’s wearing his shirt, half buttoned and hanging mid thigh. He wants to die. Instead, he sits on the couch, and she perches on the arm beside him, feet in his lap. She hands him the mug and kisses his cheek. “G’morning,” she says softly, watching him drink greedily until his tongue is burning and he coughs. “You didn’t sleep.”

He doesn’t sleep, not anymore. Not since the dreams, the twisting nightmares of black feathers and smoke and death. He thought he’d left those behind but now he feels as if there is something keeping constant vigil over him, something eager to consume and begging to burst forth if he’ll just _give in, Percival. Give in._ Sometimes he wakes up, sometimes he doesn’t, but he wants to so desperately, he aches to be revived, reborn, and renewed; the brokenness intensifies and there is something beyond that, something dark and disgusting and yet he wants it. He can’t want it.

 _The stars speak to me_ , he wants to say, _the shadows speak to me and they want me, both of them want me_ but he can’t get the words out. So instead he presses his face into her shoulder, feels the scratch of his shirt against his cheek. “Had a lot on my mind,” is all he says, and he drinks more coffee. She runs a hand down his back and he whines, arching as if she’ll scratch that itch for him. He knows she will ask. _Like what?_ But he cannot answer that, not in good faith, not now. _It’s almost too late, Percival. You’ll have to tell her, and then what?_ He thinks of Saundor in this moment and he almost laughs. This is not something he can refuse, not something he can kill.

His coffee is gone, and she takes the mug. “More?”

 _There is nothing more I want from you than you’ve already given me,_ he wants to say. _There is nothing more that you can do for me_. But he offers a smile and kisses her gently. She doesn’t care about his chapped lips, marred by years of biting at them; she never has, he supposes. She says something about a thing she’s agreed to do and she’s gone, her warmth vanishing, leaving the space around him bare and cold almost immediately. He wishes she had stayed; he has no desire to be in his workshop today.

 _Vengeance, wings, and smoke, that’s what this is about, darling. That’s exactly what this is about._ And he remembers nothing else as he dives to the ground, curling up as if to shield from the blinding pain he cannot ignore. His voice is gone, and who is around to call for help anyway. He is alone and _you should have told her when you had a chance_ but no he shouldn’t have, this isn’t her burden to bear.

In this dream, he cannot control a thing, cannot even open his mouth to scream or shake himself back to consciousness. He scratches and writhes, and the smoke, oh gods the smoke: it billows from him, spilling from his mouth and curling around _and around and around_ him in a claw. _Welcome,_ and then suddenly he sees stars expanding for miles and miles ahead of him as the smoke dissipates. There is a moment of confusion and then he is hit again, wracked with spasms and it goes on and on. He hears an echoing cry as he shakes free, feeling weightless but also pinned facedown by a landslide in the center of his back. _This is who you truly are_ but he knows this already, and he does not know what he has become.

Something warm and wet brushes against his forehead and he thinks for a moment that it is Trinket’s tongue, and he reaches out to fist his hand in fur only to brush against feathers and nothingness. He has no strength to push himself up, and starts to retract his stretched arm before his hand is caught by hers. He knows it is her because of the thin metal band on her finger. The roaring in his ears subsides and he can make out words now, “Percy, darling, are you okay?”

What a stupid question, he snarls to himself even as he chokes out a maniacal laugh and _you should have told her, you see? There is only so much she can love and now this._ “Go away,” he growls to himself, knowing it’s useless. He finds the strength in his rage and surges up, nearly toppling backwards. “Leave me alone!”

She sits back, what he now recognizes as a damp cloth in her hand, and looks scared. Not terrified, not like she wants to pull her bow, but not comfortable. “If that’s what you need, darling, you can find me when you need me.” She stands and he lunges toward her, catching her calf. He feels top heavy, and his mind clears a little more, the haze retreating, but he can’t, won’t, make connections.

 _Tell me_ , he wants to ask. _Tell me what I am_ but instead he clings. _You know what you are_ and when he squeezes his eyes shut, the stars return.

When she moves, it is slow, deliberate, like he is a wild animal she wishes to tame, and she crouches in front of him again. She reaches, and he flinches away, but she’s reaching further, around his shoulder, and he sees it now as he moves his head to follow; sees the charcoal wings spread limply like a fledgling, the tips just barely a dusty white. He wonders briefly if they will always look that way, but it is gone when she touches them, when he flinches and they fold, when he huddles against the sofa.

 _I’m sorry_ and this time he says it out loud, so quiet; he trusts her to hear it, knows she does when she comes beside him and touches his face gently. “You should get some rest,” she says, and he is relieved, but he wonders if she knows this is not going anywhere, that he will close his eyes and surely things will be worse. He wonders but he lets himself stand, finding his balance as he learns control. He feels wreathed in shadows, haloed in stars, but still, he cannot comprehend.


End file.
